His Sister's Keeper
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: Instead of a nuclear holocaust, legions of the undead have gripped the world in a decaying hold for power. In order to survive a crumbling society, one must evolve. In what ways, however, are left to the disentigrating morality of each survivor. How far will one go, in order to live in a world consumed by the ravenous dead?


Disclaimer: I don't own _Night of the Living Dead._ The story, characters, plot, etc. belong to George Romero, John Russo, and a cast and crew of amazing people who should benefit from their creation, which really _shouldn't_ be in the public domain on the grounds of a copyright error. I truly admire and appreciate their vision of what has become one of my Top Ten Favorite Films as _Night of the Living Dead_ has indeed revolutionized the living dead/zombie apocalypse genre.

Summary: Instead of a nuclear holocaust, legions of the undead have gripped the world in a decaying hold for power. In order to survive a crumbling society, one must evolve. In what ways, however, are left to the disentigrating morality of each survivor. How far will one go, in order to live in a world consumed by the dead?

…

His Sister's Keeper

Act I

 _Parkville, Pennsylvania 1968_

"And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? / And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper? /

And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.

And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand." — Genesis 9:4, The Holy Bible, KJV

Natural Selection: In any generation, the relatively few individuals who survive, owing to a particularly well adapted combination of inherited characteristics, give rise to the next generation; and the combination of characteristics of the surviving subset of the generation may be different from the combination of characteristics of the generation as a whole. — Ernst Mayr, _One Long Argument_

(Based on Darwin's theories of Natural Selection and the _Origin of Species_.)

…

By the time she managed to find a way inside the abandoned farmhouse, Barbara felt trapped by the threat which had followed her from without. She locked the front door with some difficulty; and, having deduced that she was suddenly alone, managed to grasp a semblance of her bearings.

She was in an isolated farmhouse, not far from the cemetery, which itself, was just outside of Parkville. From a distance, she could see the barn and gas pump. She didn't see any sign of a vehicle that she could use to make her escape. More than likely, the occupants of the residence had already done so, leaving their home and possessions behind—the only things out of place had been a scattering of newspapers and a lamp on the floor—and a knife that she presently held.

It seemed almost surreal. Not even an hour ago, she and Johnny—

Johnny.

Where was he? She barely registered that he'd fallen, hitting his head on a tombstone amidst a scuffle with the strange man who had attacked her. Was he unconscious? What he bleeding? Was he…She adamantly refused to think of anything beyond that point.

 _He is fine_ , she quietly reassured herself. Being the older brother by thirteen minutes, he had always looked after her, despite being twins. Their father had died when they were too young to really remember him, and so it Johnny had taken the mantle of being the man of the house at the tender age of five.

 _Maybe he'll figure out that I was chased here_ , she thought as she continued to wander through the house. From without, she heard knocking against the wall as loud footsteps trudged the ground. She stilled herself at the sound and cautiously ventured toward the edge of the window. Her eyes widened in terror at the sight of the stranger who pulled a clothesline from the side of the house and stumbled like a drunkard in pursuit of his quarry.

Closing the curtains abruptly, she turned away from the window in fear. Did he know she was hiding inside? Would he break in? God only knew.

Glancing at the coffee table, she saw a telephone and darted towards it. She dialed the operator, nervously waiting for a response yet receiving a strange, disconnected sound. She placed the handset down, silently defeated as her attacker continued to make his presence known outside.

 _What am I to do? There's no place to go. There's no way out of this place without that man seeing me._

As if belatedly realizing a second floor, she made her way to the stairs, the kitchen knife still in hand. Cautiously, she ventured up the carpeted steps, hopeful to find someone who might be able to help her. Fragments of an explanation hovered on her lips as she reached the top of the staircase, the upper floor enclosed in jagged patches of light and shadows.

The sight vaguely reminded her of the imagery from _The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari_ , all sharp, twisted, and utterly threatening. Johnny had taken her to a showing of it once. He'd made fun of her fear of the somnambulist controlled by a mad doctor.

 _They're coming to get you, Barbara._

Johnny's voice snapped her back to her senses as she took in her surroundings, her gaze idly shifting to the silhouette of something—a lump—before her. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the face of an elderly woman whose skin had been torn from the bone, a skeletal smile grinning up at her.

 _They'll do this to you, too, my dear,_ it seemed to say wordlessly. _They'll get you like they got me._

The color drained from Barbara's face, her body's reflexes forcing her down the stairs toward the door—toward anywhere, just so long as she could get away from _that_ _sight_. She scarcely noticed that she was clinging to one of the porch's columns as she was met with the glaring headlights of a truck, followed by the appearance of a man who looked at her coolly before urging her back inside.

The rest of the night proved to be an impenetrable blur, save for the few moments of clarity regarding the perilous situation she'd found herself in. There were other people who also used the farmhouse as a refuge against the throng of the ensuing, ravenous dead.

She could barely remember their names. There was a family of three; the daughter was somehow injured, while the mother and father's relationship was obviously fractured. There was also a young couple—not much younger than she—who appeared to have a better sense of what to do regarding their protection against the threat from without. And then there was Ben. His was the only name she could recall with ease.

Despite their initial meeting, he had been very considerate and protective of her. Refusing to let her out of his sight, he adamantly refused that she stay in the cellar with the others, deeming it a "death trap." She made herself forget that he'd punched when she demanded that they leave the farmhouse and find her brother. Ben claimed Johnny was as a dead as those lurking outside, but she couldn't believe it. Perhaps it was an odd quirk among twins, but she felt that her brother was still alive.

 _He'll find me,_ she reasoned quietly as she considered the delicate print on the sofa's armchair. He would find her and get her away from this madhouse. Why did the people around her have to argue about what to do? Couldn't they just agree and try to board up the windows and door? She couldn't imagine anyone getting in if they would just cooperate and seal everything up until morning.

Maybe then, someone would see their dilemma and come to their aid. The radio promised news at the beginning of each hour. Turning toward the clock over the mantle, it was well past two already. Perhaps they would have an update by three. The night seemed off by the time change. She doubted that daylight savings time had anything to do with the dead returning to life.

 _Wasn't there something about space and a satellite that something wrong with it?_ she questioned, dazedly recalling an interview among scientists and a news crew that she and the others had seen an hour ago. The military claimed that radiation fallout from a mission to Venus was just conjecture, but nothing else really made sense to Barbara. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

 _And now there are reports of this kind of thing all over the country._ Glancing towards Ben, she saw the determination to survive in his eyes. He'd succeeded in killing a few with the tire iron, and then several with a shotgun he'd found. He'd even found her a pair of shoes that nearly fit.

If she had anyone aside from Johnny to trust right now, it was Ben. She didn't care about Mr. Cooper's—Cooper, yes, that was his name—assurances about the cellar being the safest place. They wouldn't be able to get out if the dead managed to get in.

In point of fact, Barbara could also sense the obvious through her cataonic state; the racial tension among Mr. Cooper and Ben was so thick that she could cut it with the kitchen knife she'd found. Mr. Cooper hated taking orders from a man he viewed beneath him because of the color of his skin. Everyone in the room could see that Cooper disliked Ben because the latter had a voice and didn't kowtow around a man who found himself the superior.

It was enough to convince the young couple—she wanted to say that their names were Tim and Janie, but that didn't sound quite right—to side with Ben and help him get gasoline for the truck. They agreed that they could make their escape to Willard if they could unlock the gas pump and make a run for it. The dead wouldn't be able to keep up as they made their way to a rescue center.

To Barbara, the plan seemed to be a good idea. She hated to leave Johnny behind, but she couldn't convince anyone to look for him. She felt trapped. Everyone—primarily the men—made the decisions, whereas she, could only sit and think.

She wasn't "Out of her head," as Mr. Cooper claimed. No, she could speak and react when pressed. She simply had no desire to engage in what seemed like a meaningless conversation. She wanted things to make sense again. She wanted to undo the last seven hours and return to home to Pittsburgh. Was it so much to ask? She disliked being around strangers who only thought of themselves and not of the welfare of others.

And as such, she would wait for her brother to make the others see some sense. She just had to wait a little longer before he came for her. Until then, she would sit quietly and wait. She only prayed that Johnny would not keep her waiting too much longer.

They had an elderly mother to return home to, after all. It would be terrible if she and Johnny worried her. Having a weak heart, Barbara knew that the current panic over the radio would only make their mother sicker.

 _Please hurry, Johnny, we need to go home_ , she thought quietly, hoping, praying, that he would simply open the door and take her home _._ Confident in the knowledge that he would do so, she continued, waiting patiently as she watched the people around her unravel with each passing hour.

…

 **Author's Note:** **I must confess that this is the first** _ **Night of the Living Dead**_ **, let alone zombie story, I've ever written. I truly enjoy the genre, but was a little burned out by multiple seasons of a certain AMC show. XD I actually used zombie films as a way of therapy of conquering a childhood fear of the living dead. Nevertheless,** _ **Night of the Living Dead**_ **is one of my favorite films. It's also the only film about the modern zombie that hasn't given me chronic nightmares.**

 **A few things…**

 **This story will remain in the 1968** _ **Night of the**_ _ **Living Dead**_ **universe. I've no intention of incorporating anything from Romero's other films or any comic book series based on the original. That also includes the canon universe of the Avatar comics in which my story greatly diverges from the official "Word of God" material from that series.**

 **And as such, please heed that this particular story will most certainly warrant a few warnings…**

 **As with most dystopian stories that focus on a zombie apocalypse, this one isn't full of sunshine, bunnies, and roses. There are themes of violence, death, questionable levels of morality, sexual deviancy—which will most certainly occur in a later chapter—social collapse, etc.**

 **Things** _ **do**_ **indeed fall apart; the center—e.g., society—cannot hold. (So glad if anyone caught the Y.B. Yeats reference! He is the original to coin the phrase.)**

 **Also, I shall continue with Darwinian references. I shall mention certain aspects of both religion and science, but please bear in mind that I'm personally neutral and am open-minded on the grounds regarding both. I utterly refuse to debate theology or science; I'm just writing about a world overrun by the living dead.**

 **Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys what I have so far. I don't expect this be written in more than five parts. I've had this since September, so I wanted to get Part I up by Halloween.**

 **Until next time!**

— **Kittie**


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